Who does not love true poetry,
He lacks a bosom friend
—To walk with him
—And talk with him,
And all his steps attend.

Who does not love true poetry—
Its rhythmic throb and swing
—The treat of it
—The sweet of it,
Along the paths of Spring:

Its joyous lilting melody
In every passing breeze,
—The deep of it,
—The sweep of it,
Through hours of toil or ease;

Its grandeur and sublimity—
Its majesty and might—
—The feel of it,
—The peal of it,
Through all the lonely night;

Though on the wings of Thought I distance
The star-vault's pallid bound,
'Tis Love must fill my heart's insistence
With heaven on earthly ground.

Angel heart and woman form!
All my praise thou art above;
Thou hast cleared my life of storm
With the sunshine of thy love.

Let me love thee my life long,
Then in heaven renew my song,
When thy day of death shall part
Woman form and angel heart!

Where art thou? And for whom, O lady mine,
Dost temper the keen ray of thy dark eyes?
For whom dost thou in soft tones harmonise
The secret music of that heart of thine?

Dost thou, my sweet, 'mid flowers and grass recline,
Dreamily gazing at the windy skies?
Or of some wooing stream art thou the prize,
To whose embrace thou dost thy limbs resign?

Oh, whereso'er thou art, whether the breeze
With soft, delicious murmur fans thy face,
Or water sleeps on thy white shoulders, these

Believe to be my love, which lends its grace

Why , my heart, do we love her so?
(Geraldine, Geraldine!)
Why does the great sea ebb and flow?—
Why does the round world spin?
Geraldine, Geraldine,
Bid me my life renew:
What is it worth unless I win,
Love—love and you?

Why, my heart, when we speak her name
(Geraldine, Geraldine!)
Throbs the word like a flinging flame?—
Why does the Spring begin?
Geraldine, Geraldine,
Bid me indeed to be:
Open your heart, and take us in,
Love—love and me.

It was only three days ago,
I sadly said good-bye.
To all my pretty flowers, and wept
To think that they must die.

To my beautiful tea-rose
Which by my window stood;
Which then was full of blossoms
And tender shoots and bud.

And to my scarlet-flowering sage,
And petunias red and white,
My zinnias and my dahlias,
And yellow 'sturtiums bright.

I said good-bye with tear-dimmed eyes,
For were not these the flowers
Which to me had been comrades
Through by-gone summer hours?

Unto my friends I give my thoughts
Unto my God my soul,
Unto my foe I leave my love—
These are of life the whole.

Nay, there is something—a trifle—left;
Who shall receive this dower?
See, Earth Mother, a handful of dust—
Turn it into a flower.

Love, what were fame,
And thou not in it,
That I should hold it worth
Much toil to win it?

What were success
Didst thou not share it?
As Spring can spare the snows
I well could spare it!

Love, what were love
But of thy giving
That it should much prevail
To sweeten living?

Nay, what were life,
Save thou inspire it,
That I should bid my soul
Greatly desire it?

There is rapture in the thought,
From thy words of constance caught,
That the world contains no prize
Like the peace thy love supplies.

And I ponder o'er and o'er
Words of love forevermore,
As they come in tenderest tone
From thy heart—which is my own.

There is rapture in the thought,
From thy words of constance caught,
That the world contains no prize
Like the peace thy love supplies.

And I ponder o'er and o'er
Words of love forevermore,
As they come in tenderest tone
From thy heart—which is my own.

My mind was like a rugged soil that lay
With thick and cloudy darkness overspread,
Which chilling skies and iron seasons made
A sterile waste, with their ungentle sway.
Warmed in the light of Beauty's genial ray,
Its icy bands were loosed, its rigour fled,
And many a budding flow'ret reared its head,
As blooms the meadow in the prime of May.
Then came Love's gentle summer breath, to form
Flowers into fruit: and soon his fostering care
Had to a golden Autumn led the way;—
But ah! fell Jealousy's untimely storm